


mashed potatoes & other mushy substances

by apple_solutely



Series: Peas and Carrots [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Amputee Eddie Kaspbrak, Bad Puns, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Takes Care of Richie Tozier, Established Relationship, I lied this is my most self-indulgent fic oops, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Richie Tozier Takes Care of Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier cries a lot, Richie Tozier needs self-esteem and a hug, Richie and Eddie figure their shit out together because we love an openly communicative relationship, babies!! Lots of them!!, babyfic?, pop culture references because I'm a nerd, sentimental saps, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_solutely/pseuds/apple_solutely
Summary: More domestic shenanigans following Richie and his amputee husband, Eddie as they take the next big step in their relationship
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Peas and Carrots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066727
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	mashed potatoes & other mushy substances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edswannabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edswannabe/gifts).



> Hi, hello!! If you're new, you might want to read Peas & Carrots since there are a few vague references!! If you're here as a fan/friend...I sincerely adore each and every one of you because despite initially writing this one for myself, I couldn't have finished the sequel without all the positive responses to the first one.
> 
> Thank you to all of my irl and online friends, my sisterwives over at twitter or discord who I adore (since they also listened to me complain), and most of all Sam who this fic is dedicated to because they truly made me believe they loved Peas and Carrots. But also because they're one of the coolest people I've gotten to know online and I care you!! Our friendship is 20% random shit, 40% banter and 40% making each other cry so I hope this one won't...be as...emotional? I'm sorry??
> 
> But let's be real, every paragraph made me cry while writing, which does not guarantee this one will make anyone cry!! I just have an active imagination!! Which is also why this one took super long (I'm big mad at myself for that) but uni did get in the way too so... :(
> 
> This fic may be more useless than the first and may actually be garbage if we're being honest, but I genuinely hope this pleases some of you out there :) Fair warning: it may be a bit different than pac because I tried my best to keep it short and direct 
> 
> Enjoy <3

Switching the knob to build flame, Richie places the pot of water and prunes above to let it boil. He covers the pot and sets a timer for two minutes on their Google Home, water at boiling point. 

He scratches his bare stomach and smothers a yawn right as Miss Kitty Fantastico purrs and brushes between his ankles with her big doe eyes. “Hi, baby.” 

_ Meow? _

Richie collapses on all fours to reach her level. She merely perks up and places a paw on the creases of his forehead. He snorts, “Alright, alright. You can stop being cute, I’ll give you your food.” He promises, but she wrinkles her nose and even as he stands up, she circles his feet. “Goddammit. My heart can’t take this!” He scolds. 

_ Meow? _ she purrs with a head tilt.

Richie pouts right back and blows out a breath while he snatches the bag of kitten biscuits they’d bought for her (the most luxurious brand they could find because he’d insisted Kitty deserved the best).

He pets her head gently as she chews, only able to give two pats exactly before the timer beeps, knees popping as he pads towards the stove. Richie switches the flame off and pours the mixture into the blender, sets it at the desired pace. He catches sight of Kitty hopping away from the noise generated by the machine. 

“Aww.” Sympathy covers his heart but Kitty’s gone and hid under the table so Richie promises, “I’ll be back for you!” She pops her head out from underneath and he smiles to himself.

Once he feels the contents are just the right thickness, he pushes the button to put it at stop. At exactly the same moment, he nearly jumps out of his body when small fingers come up from behind. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Eds!” 

His heart races even as Eddie curls forward to tangle his fingers into the short hair at Richie’s sternum. Under his palm, his heart sings from his touch, wedding band cold on nude skin. A pleased mixture of a growl and a sigh emits Eddie’s mouth as he presses up from behind, crotch snug against him. Richie grips the countertop, white knuckles. 

“Did you just include me in the holy trinity?” Eddie mumbles hoarsely from behind, words wrapped on Richie’s skin, and lips brushing. 

“I’ve suddenly forgotten the english language—so I can’t really answer that.” 

He feels his smile stretch out on his back, and Richie buzzes under his skin. Eddie’s hand slips lower to the waistband of Richie’s boxers, right at the edge. Richie squeezes in his stomach and busies himself in transferring the juice into the cup with shaky fingers. 

“You made me prune juice…” His fingers dance along with the stretch material, nose flat at Richie’s spine.

“Y-yes.” Richie applies his weight backwards to fit in Eddie’s embrace. He loves when he gets like this. Astonished by his surprisingly observing nature. (But Eddie knows Richie’s constantly looking at him. Even from the corner of his eye. Waiting and loving silently.) 

First is a groan that Richie can feel at the core of his bones and then Eddie slips away for easier access in twirling him to meet face-to-face. He softens at the sight held before him; of his half-curly, half-flattened hair, gray strands like lightning in a stormy sky, bare-chested and in their sausage patterned boxers. His chest scar stops right at the edge of his stump, as if someone cut him at an angle—like that game Fruit Ninja. (Richie briefly wonders if he’s a watermelon in this analogy.) 

“Fuck.” The world slices the air and before Richie can even blink, Eddie’s tugged him down from the nape, forehead-to-forehead.

“You good?” Richie asks, rolling his bottom lip into his mouth, an unbidden smile curled. 

“Apple-solutely.” 

“Eek!” 

His brown eyes dilate, along with the dramatic effect of his grip tightening in Richie’s hair, “Stop that. You’re not one of Kitty’s squeaky toys.” 

Richie grins and places both hands on Eddie’s stubble-y jaw. One finger covers the jagged but exceptionally smooth patch of his skin where Bowers stabbed him. “Now, how can I ever take a man who just said ‘apple-solutely’ seriously?”

“Like this,” With a hint of a dignified smirk, he, instead of pulling Richie in, swoops upwards like he wants to breathe him in like a dementor. A sexy dementor kiss.

Eddie doesn’t even have to ask before Richie’s swallowed him into his mouth, tongue curling behind his teeth in a way that has his whole body stand up in attention. Fisted into Eddie’s skin, Richie marks him with crescents, a low moan released as a shallow breath taken right before being dunked underwater. 

(Richie used to dream of kissing him at the Quarry. After they would jump, just the two of them below, wordless bubbles flowing out like their blank thoughts they’d never been brave enough to voice.) 

His hand cups low at the dip of Richie’s spine, pinning him to his body. Eddie allows him to fiercely kiss him, to suck low on his lip, to let his mouth travel down to where his chin is, hairy and ticklish on Richie’s tongue. 

“I don’t think you’re serious enough…” Richie trails off innocently. 

Eddie’s hand slips under to rest on one of Richie’s ass cheeks in the next split second. “How about now?” 

“Mmm, and all because I made you prune juice.”

“Not all because of that.” Impatient and needy, he can sense Eddie’s frustration in how his compact body seems on the verge of disintegrating. (Eddie is unhappy whenever he can’t find a proper way to hold Richie with only one arm. He indulges all of his attention towards Richie because of this, seemingly his way of making up for not being able to do so with two. Which is stupidly dumb because Eddie doesn’t have to _ try _ ). 

So, he curls and curls him so tight Richie has to blink away tears when Eddie chooses to respond back with an equally passionate embrace. 

“You counted.” His mouth drags in between Richie’s chest.

“Of course I did.”

“You pay attention to me. I like that you pay attention to me.” 

“I know.” An airy chuckle blows past his lips and ruffles a few strands of Eddie’s hair. “I just didn’t think it would extend to the matter of if you have or haven’t taken a shit.” 

Eddie sighs and accepts the prune juice, “When you put it like that…” He takes a few timid sips and licks his lips as if he were a judge on a reality cooking show. “Perfect, as usual.” 

Richie kisses him and chases the fresh taste of toothpaste and sweet prunes. He draws out a prolonged hum from Eddie’s side, making him smile, “Number?” 

He sips once more, training a steady gaze of intensity his way, “It was a two...” a pause as Richie runs a hand through Eddie’s hair to smooth out some strands. His eyelashes flutter in response, eyes down and bashful, “But then I hugged you…” He trails off, volume decreasing with every word.

“D’aww!” Richie melts, “You love me! You fucking love me!” He exclaims and nearly lifts Eddie off the ground with how quickly he’s gathered him up in his arms. 

His voice is muffled, “Do you think I’d willingly marry someone who still doesn’t know how taxes work otherwise?” 

“Exactly why this is so embarrassing for you. I’m a fucking idiot.” He replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Shut up. Don’t say that about my best friend.” Eddie holds his cheek as if he needs to just to put strength behind his words, “I’m in love with him, you see.” His voice drops like smooth butter slipping out of his grasp. 

Richie’s whine vibrates out of him immediately, a heavy pout pushed out, “It’s too early in the morning for this many emotions.” 

Eddie laughs, argumentative, “You’ve been up for hours!”

“Yeah, well, I fucking love you.” 

“I fucking love you too!” Eddie puffs hot breaths of laughter into the warm skin of Richie’s neck. “God, I adore you.” He slides his wet mouth to the curve of his jawline. “Can I stay here?”

He giggles in between the delicate moments Eddie’s mouth hovers above his own, breath captured whenever he kisses him. “Here?” 

Eddie hums and bruises in with all his might. (He’s a force to reckon with) and a sensory thrill drops to the base of his tailbone at the all-encompassing pressure. Richie gasps in response. “Yeah...Right here.” A loaded sigh lifts off his plumper lips due to duress, face pressed into the middle of Richie’s chest where Eddie’s breath tickles hairy skin. 

Richie fiercely cages him inside the circle of his arms, and makes sure to put in all his weight. (What’s that quote again? ‘You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think and loved more than you know.’ Richie marks it as all of the above. Winnie the Pooh knew his shit.) 

“Like a barnacle?” Richie traces a finger to the map of freckles he can find by memory alone. 

This sigh is far less content and a lot more disgruntled. “As long as you’re the whale.” He murmurs lazily.

A curl of a smile, “Because of my blowhole?”

“ _ Mph! _ ” There isn’t any emotion tied to that reply. Automatic and instinctive. A familiar back and forth like swings the two of them would fight to sit on when they were children. “I have nothing to say.”

Richie giggles and dips his face entirely into the cradle of his husband’s shoulder, “That’s fine. I’ll do the talking.”

“You do anyway…” He slides his palm to the center of Richie’s bare stomach, a molten tingle alight under his touch. “How about you?” Eddie rubs gently and with the relaxed ease of a husband grasping his wife’s pregnant stomach. 

(A razor-quick flash of an uncontrollable hunger and need to provide Eddie with a child flickers across his mind. Richie nearly breaks out in hysterics. Sometimes Eddie fucks him like it’s his goal to get him pregnant.) 

His heart rate picks up, “I’m nervous—but the exciting sort of nervous.” Richie can barely breathe past the balloon of giddiness trapped in his lungs. 

(Maggie told him once as he lay his head in her lap, vision blurry from tears and heartbroken by the fact that he can’t seem to find the words to explain.  _ Make room to speak about what exists. Don’t allow yourself to wonder about everything left unsaid. _ )

Eddie grunts softly and Kitty paws timidly at their feet, crying for attention. With a smile Richie wants to put his mouth on, Eddie picks her up. 

He remembers when he’d be afraid to carry Fred and even Kitty. “You’re getting good at that…” Richie comments while he prepares their enriching breakfast: granola, yogurt, and berries.

(Some things never change.)

Kitty meows, nuzzles into his warm skin, and all of a sudden, Richie wishes to be her. Eddie laughs lowly as if he can hear his thoughts, eyebrows arched and he’s soft. He’s so fucking soft. And thoughtful. Richie can see past his stupid fucking doe eyes and see him envisioning the future.

“I love you.” Eddie’s face sparks with a fleeting thought as he tips up to kiss the corner of his cheek, near the dimple of Richie’s mouth.

And Richie thinks: some things change for the better.

  
  
  
  
  


Richie gnaws down at his lower lip, simultaneously picking at the bit of chapped skin on the flesh due to dehydration. Every few minutes a phone call rings in the almost nauseatingly quiet hospital waiting room, and Richie must have perked up at every moment a nurse walks in wearily to call in a patient. He runs a hand through his hair and scratches absently at the back until Eddie’s hand flies down to his knee. 

It’s as if he’s pushed the stop button for he immediately halts all movement of his leg he hadn’t previously noticed was jittering in the first place. Richie offers him a sheepish purse of his lips, jutted further once Eddie runs a palm up to the middle of his thigh and down in one stroke, automatically linking their fingers where his hand lies. 

“Hey, wanna hear a joke?” Richie asks, frenetic energy as a motivating factor for his urge to ramble. Eddie pumps his hand,  _ yes _ , “Why did the banana go to the doctor?” 

His eyebrow dips into a furrowed frown, distaste yet his thumb and how it circles lightly at the inner flesh of Richie’s hand screams a rather adoring approach. “Why?” 

He tips forward with a cheeky grin, “Because he wasn’t peeling well!”

Eddie shakes his head, a small smile apparent on his lips. “And I thought your jokes couldn’t get any worse.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Absolutely hated it.”

“Now, don’t get me all hot and bothered.” 

This draws a real laugh out of Eddie, one where he curves forward with the force of it. (He’s gorgeous. Richie wants to sweep back his salt and pepper hair, wants to trace his wrinkles, and kiss his stump and lick his scars. He wants to hold him—hold him and keep him in his pocket or  _ be _ kept in Eddie’s.)

Eddie licks his lips, defiant but Richie  _ sees _ past that, “That look is gonna cause you trouble.” 

“Trashmouth Tozier causing Trouble.” He hums out a sigh, a weight lifted off his chest. Eddie squeezes his hand tighter. It’s almost too tight, but he likes to feel Eddie and how he’s eternally able to awaken the flurry of butterflies in his stomach. “Trouble Tozier. Sandra’s gonna hate that one.”

Eddie scoffs predictably, “Don’t tell me you want to change your stage name.  _ Again. _ ” And Richie’s stranded with the thought of where exactly he was leading with this. 

A curious arch makes itself known over the bridge of his eye, and Richie shifts his body to the side, one leg hooked up and under his other leg. He wonders what he must look like: a middle-aged man-child who’s behaving like a kid suffering from a sugar high. Eddie’s finger draws to a halt mid-loop.

In faux seriousness, Richie quotes in what he believes is a quite on par impersonation of Nicholas Cage, “‘Did I ever tell ya’—” Eddie winces, “—‘that this here jacket represents a symbol of my individuality, and my belief in personal freedom?’”

Richie blinks (flutters his eyelashes).

Eddie blinks back. (His were always longer. Curled up and pretty. He wishes his own could be as such yet mascara is the only method in achieving the look.)

An underwire of electricity jolts from the base of where Eddie’s fingers casually lie, except now the touch makes his skin howl and his groin to stir in interest. Richie bites his lips. 

“I hate you.”

“Mh-hm,” Richie responds, a traitorous snicker blown past his nose. He drops a kiss to Eddie’s shoulder, over the fabric of his  _ World’s best farter—I mean father  _ sweater, and a startled breath escapes the cages of his lips. Richie is going to pop anytime soon. And it certainly doesn’t help when Eddie plants a kiss to the top of his ruffled hair. He inhales him in (cologne and green tea), and for a second they breathe in sync.

It’s like a dance they’ve revisited countless times. 

“It’s okay, baby.” Richie says, “I understand where you’re coming from. Nicholas Cage is a very sexy man. If he were flirting with you, I’d want to go _full-on_ _ Kill Bill _ on him too.”

Eddie huffs, “Nicholas Cage can go  _ fuck off _ .”

Richie giggles and it releases some of the tension bundled on the back of his neck. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“I can quote  _ National Treasure _ from beginning to end.”

“ _ Yes _ , Richie. You remind me multiple times in a day!”

"Hey," He nudges his face up just slightly to see the curve of Eddie’s jaw and the bottom section of his dimpled cheek, “wanna get married?”

A low sound mixed between a scoff and exasperation. And then, as he links their fingers (light click as their wedding rings clash, like two planets exploding into starburst), he says, “Yes.”

“‘Can I marry your brain?’”

He makes a contemplative noise, “That’s from  _ National Treasure _ .”

“But not Nicholas Cage, my little spoon full of sugar.” He peers through the curtain of his eyelashes. (He knows what he’s doing. Richie also knows what Eddie is doing.) It has him smile. It has him tilt forward. “Can y—” He breathes in through his nose directly on impact. 

(Eddie knows. He always fucking knows.) 

And Richie has kissed men—all types of them—the good, the bad and the ones who have imprinted themselves into his skin, his blood, who have shape-shifted him into a self-deprecating man, one who is still afraid (at the pit of the well) in rare moments of weakness. 

But he doesn’t mind that he hadn’t indulged in their lack of affections nor minds the lack of sex as an outcome of awkward interactions in dingy alleyways and the back of closets (that one might’ve cut it a bit close). Richie doesn’t mind it all—he doesn’t mind it when Eddie pushes and pushes because he craves _him_. He _wants_ him and Eddie doesn’t ask for a lot—he doesn’t ask for anything at all except for one thing. (But he has to _know_. He _has_ to know he has Richie.) And when Eddie spreads his fingers to the back of his nape, a quivering smile pressed at the seam, he believes he does. 

Someone clears their throat, a tight uplift near the end, “Tozier-Kaspbrak?” 

They part, and Richie wipes his chin, smug with the way Eddie’s ears tinge pink with a breathless, “Yes!” On instinct, their fingers interlock, and he squeezes him again. 

The nurse smiles warmly with the notion of an expert who has probably seen multiple make-out sessions in a hospital waiting room. “Follow me.” 

“Holy fuck, holy fuck.” He hears Eddie whisper, and Richie clenches his hand, heart just about ready to beat out of his chest. This was it.

It’s Richie who clings on Eddie this time, who hangs off his sturdy frame and digs his nails into his biceps. He thinks,  _ look at him now, look at how he’s grown. _

They’re led inside a private nursery room down the hall, entering a drabby white door, just like any other. Richie wishes he could note down the interior elements of the room beside the basic details he immediately locks down: the cot, wooden and durable. He hears a coo, and impossibly short fingers mid-air, seen through the gaps of wood.

Richie’s eyes well up on their own account, a ball chalked to the forefront of his throat, thick and enough to suffocate. An empty bottomless pit of numbness spreads like the PB&J sandwiches Eddie makes him during the moments he’s entirely wrapped up in his writing, efficiently layered to cover the entire surface. 

He parts open his mouth, glued to the reflective tiled floor as the nurse reaches in to grab the baby. Eddie inhales sharply but steps forward and out of Richie’s hold, encaptured by the sight of her. His fingers flex, and a flash of something akin to neediness flares up inside his esophagus—for a need to have Eddie right by his side, holding his hand. How is Richie supposed to even function without his anchor—without Eddie’s organization and talent for guidance? 

(Eddie knew his way around the forests of Derry much as Mike would, the two of them navigators for the Losers, leading them home without a fault and a misstep. It’s the only thing Richie has ever known: to follow Eddie to the ends of the Earth. And it’s never backfired.) 

“Hello, there…” The nurse greets her lyrically, a bounce in her hold, “How are you, love?” She lightly jostles her again, drawing out a coo so small yet full of laughter, Richie feels dizzy. 

“Can I—I want to—” Eddie breathes out.

“Of course.” She replies as if he needn’t bother to ask in the first place.

His face cracks for a brief second, taken aback because it’s what  _ he’s  _ known all his life. Feet arched, armed, and ready to pounce. Eddie nods, and that’s all it takes. She’s in his one arm with practiced ease from the countless times he’s done so with their nieces and nephews—and Kitty. And oh.  _ They’re gorgeous,  _ and Richie injects his incisor to the soft flesh of his bottom lip, entirely overcome with this heavenly image. 

With hands perched on her hips, the nurse says, “I’m sure you’ve read her medical reports, but I’ll update you once again. Temperature 36.1, 10 pounds, perfect vision, and perfectly healthy. We’ve conducted her ABR and OAE as well.”

“Right…” Eddie’s smile drops a smidge, downcasting a soft gaze in the baby’s direction. She peers up at him with big, curious eyes. Brown like Eddie’s with a frown so alike his, it physically guts him. But her skin is paler like Richie’s.

(It’s too close to home. Like she’s theirs already.)

Eddie rubs his thumb gently into her side in comfort, strong muscles capable of keeping her stable. “I read it’s sensorineural hearing loss?”

“Yes, damage to the inner ear caused by infections before birth and or genetic causes.” She levels a reassuring look, “It’s permanent but when she grows, she’ll have to make the choice to follow through with a cochlear implant or hearing aids. It’ll be up to her if she wants her hearing.”

“Do people prefer not to have their hearing?” Eddie asks, forever worrying about the future. 

“There are some cases, yes. It also falls down to your encouragement and how you raise her.” 

Richie has the sudden urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Holy fuck. A small pathetic sound erupts from his throat, causing Eddie and the nurse to glance his way. He swallows down, throat parched and all Richie wants is to sprint down the fire escape like he did at the Derry Townhouse. Because all he can think about is that if Eddie consoles him, he’s going to never stop like the time their sink leaked and water gathered  _ everywhere _ . God, it was such a mess and  _ Richie _ is a fucking mess! 

But Eddie is his husband and he knows well enough just how to advance. Richie thinks the two of them have a triangular yellow sign reading  _ Handle with care _ in bold letters stuck to their foreheads. 

The nurse must have a sixth sense for she steps back and says, “I think I’ll leave you two to discuss. I’ll just be outside if you need me.”

Eddie doesn’t look away from him. 

His facade slips down in the form of a single tear crawling out from the crevice of his eye.

“Rich...” Eddie steps forward with her, and Richie clams up. A sob wracks up and engulfs the seam of his mouth all at once just as Eddie’s cheeks crinkle from his watery smile. “Shh, it’s okay…”

“Eds, I—” He seems to say alongside a rough choke.

A tiny jerk of his chin, “I understand.” 

Richie’s shoulders relax as he hunches into himself, sniffing up snot and aiming to dab his tears by the tail-end of his own sweater. “I’m s-sorry! She’s so beautiful, Eds! How can someone not want her? How can—” Richie takes a deep breath, teeth gritted, “How can someone look at her and even think of not keeping her?” 

Eddie releases a shaky puff of air, grimness settled along the lines of his face and anger matching Richie’s own, “I don’t know. But we can’t account for what the mother was going through.” He licks his lips, thoughtful all in the scrunch of his eyebrows as he circles his thumb to her midsection. 

_ No children _ , Eddie had said all those years ago; a result of his fear of inadequacy.  _ No pets.  _ And Richie had learned not to ask because what did it all matter if he had Eddie in the end? If he were an uncle to so many others—a godfather to Fred—someone he would raise heaven and hell for. 

But he thinks it’s all a bit inevitable. They got Kitty and Richie had known it wouldn’t take time for Eddie to let go of his fears soon. One summer day, the two of them babysat Mike and Bill’s son Oliver, spread out on the carpeted floor, playing duck-duck-goose. Oliver had shrieked with laughter, running and chasing Eddie into every corner, forced to surrender. He’d pretend to collapse on the floor every time Oliver clung to his legs, and allow him to climb all over, tickle him senseless. 

Richie thinks of that moment frequently. Of how it still causes his heart to burst whenever he remembers their eyes locking, his dimples stretching, mischievous and Richie had  _ known. _ When time had halted, a sense of peace intertwined to his very core—as if it were sown inside. 

“You know you…” He finds himself wording. Eddie tilts his head up and it rushes out of him, “You look good—you both look good.”

Eddie’s Adam's apple bobs, “Yeah?” 

Richie nods, “Yeah.” He blinks back tears, laughing wetly in aims of lightening up the mood, “Dilf material right there.” 

A small sound of a scoff, “You’re impossible.” Eddie shakes his head, too fond for his own good. “And stop crying. You’re going to make me cry.”

Richie presses his lips to Eddie’s forehead, right on top of a freckle. “You know how much I love you. How much I love babies.” Eddie retaliates by kissing his cheek, on a spot where a salty tear is drying on his skin. “How much I love looking at you with babies...how  _ sexy _ you are.” 

His breath hitches, “You think I’m sexy when I’m eating noodles, Rich.”

Ignited and baited all at once, he says, “Because it’s noodles! We call my— _ thing  _ a noodle!”

Appalled, Eddie whispers back, “I have  _ never _ called your dick a noodle! When the fuck have I—”

“Hey, now! _ —Baby _ !” He warns and points at the tiny wriggling girl in his arm.

A glare sparks underneath his clouded gaze and it effectively expels Richie’s desire to burst into tears once again. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know what this is all about.” 

“Is that so?” He asks innocently in a terrible impersonation of Jim Jensons’ Kermit, hives just about ready to make an appearance all over his back.

“You’re afraid of holding her.” 

Richie’s guts cave, “...I’m…”

Sometimes it’s easy to forget who exactly he’s dealing with: his husband but his best friend at foremost and at the very least. Richie’s observed his own parents all through his childhood and has seen the significance of enjoying romance that ties with trust and honesty. True love lies in genuine companionship because what is love without a little humor, a little frustration, and  _ sticking together.  _

Eddie releases a sad attempt of a sigh, “Sweetheart…” He pauses to make up his mind, “What are you so worried about?” 

He shrugs up a heavy shoulder, eyes trained at where she stares up at him—peering right through. Her mouth parts, an iridescent bubble formed at the seam and Richie finds a smile quiver up on his own, entranced. 

“She’s so tiny,” Richie comments once her fingers stretch forward, needy. 

“In your arms, I imagine her to be—look,” Side-stepping closer, Eddie nudges her, “She wants to be held by her other daddy, hm?”

“Oh, there is no way I’m letting her call me daddy.” Richie argues with a firm shake of his head, “I’m pops. Short for Popeyes because ‘I yam what I yam an' tha's all I yam’—” He swings his arm sideways in the empty space between with facial expressions to mimic the character. 

It nearly knocks him down to his ass when she explodes into laughter, cheeks squishy and eyes shining with affection. His heartbeat quickens rabbit-fast. 

Richie thinks it’s the most beautiful vision he’s ever witnessed in his life. “Oh.” He chokes. “I made her laugh!” Breathless with wonder, he glances up at Eddie, just as teary. 

Eddie smiles in that encouraging way of his, “Of course you did, bug. You’re going to make her laugh all the time.” And if that wasn’t enough to throw him in for a loop, he adds with an endearing head tilt, “Illyana is going to be the happiest daughter because of you.”

Richie sucks in a sharp breath, “Eds…” he licks his lips, “You too. She will be because of  _ you too _ .” 

“I know.” He replies with an air of haughtiness. “We make a good team.” 

“I suppose we do…” Richie straightens up after pushing his eyes away from Eddie’s all-too loving gaze. Everything about Eddie seems to flood his senses and this, on frequent occasions, causes him to feel like a glass bottle moments away from erupting from high-pitched noises. 

He extends out his hands, unable to voice it just yet—and Eddie exhales a relieved sort of breath, shoulders slouched. She— _ Illyana _ whines lowly while she’s transported in Richie’s arms. He tries to be as gentle as possible, lungs halted in expansion, afraid. With a careful palm under her head and the other low near her bum, he shifts her to a spot exactly where she’ll be most safe and secure. 

Illyana is warm. Not heavy, light as air—like the worms he and Bill used to pick off from plants in the garden during preschool. “H-hello.” He wonders if she can tell he’s about to vibrate out of his skin and melt into the floor. She probably can’t, but one hand is attached to her mouth, fiddling with her gums and wet, while the other rests feather-light at Richie’s sternum. And when Illyana kicks her foot in excitement, he has absolutely no physical or emotional reaction. He feels  _ so much _ he couldn’t begin to explain even a sliver of it. 

Richie knows she can’t hear, so he knows the importance of showing just as much as telling, which is why he rambles on for his own sanity, hoping it will comfort her still. “Hello, silly. Silly Illyana…” His hands shake when he goes to tickle her belly lightly as if to test it out. “It’s a big world out there, huh? A lot of people rejected you just as they rejected me.” A hum of agreement from her side almost surprises him, “But we’re one and the same, you and I. Losers.” Richie traces his finger around the outline of her ear only to earn another healthy kick, “But, hey. Nothing wrong with being a loser.” She blinks curiously—inquisitive, “It means you got us all. Yeah that’s right. You got Beverly, Stan, Patty, Mike, Ben, Bill, and Charlie, Fred, Flynn, Oliver, and Minnie. We’re going to protect you. We  _ chose _ you.” Richie’s so caught up by her, he seems to forget Eddie’s presence and startles slightly once he palms up his bicep, “We chose you out of all of them…” Illyana emits another baby-like noise, thrummed all through her form. 

Eddie plasters himself to Richie’s side, rubbing up to his shoulder where he plants a fierce kiss on the knob. His throat squeezes from internal pressure.

“Yes, we did.” Eddie croaks by his ear as he rests his chin on Richie’s sturdy shoulder. 

The three of them interlock in place, fitted like a puzzle piece—like they were a family and a home already. 

Eddie murmurs and wedges his nose deep into Richie’s neck to press a kiss, as his hand moves up to clutch his cheek and tilt it so that they’re face-to-face. A look that’s usually reserved for when Eddie’s constipated or brooding angrily over fake fans on Twitter who drag Richie’s name through mud overcomes—except it isn’t a shadow. It’s like staring directly into the sun because his skin is alive and Richie’s heart sings, unable to  _ not _ mirror his emotions. (Not that he could ever switch that part of his brain either. The part which constantly absorbs Eddie’s moods.) 

His eyes sink to where Eddie’s mouth quirks into a smirk, “Hey, you know what?” 

Richie flicks his eyes up and down, wetting his lower lip in the process, “What?” 

“You look good too.” He says. 

“Yeah?”

Eyebrows drooped, Eddie nods, “Yeah, of course.” His arm flies in the air in that way of his during explanations, all a-matter-of-fact, “It’s the whole bicep, shoulder, forearm thing.”

“Ah,” Richie teases, caught up in a theatrical stance, “The deadly trio—” Eddie smacks his arm lightly with a tinged ears, “—How could I ever forget all my  _ assets— _ ”

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up, asshole.” 

“—And how my body gets you—”

Eddie kisses him again and if Richie winds up melting entirely within a millisecond, none of them mention a word of it. They’re living in bliss—it’s not as if either of them can help it. As if to guarantee attention Illyana coos, causing them to part with low laughter as Richie sniffles. 

Eddie bops her nose, “So?” His exceptionally curious eyes are wide when he looks up. 

Richie nods with a bite of his lip, heart rate spiked enough to steal his breath. His face sags as he closes his eyes in relief. Something light and airy flutters low in his stomach. The same intensity is found in the times before he walks up on stage (the adrenaline rush and the spark of fear). 

But this feeling is different. It grasps low in his throat and tightens. And he thinks this must be the first time he’s ever been as happy to take a step forward _ together _ . 

_ Welcome to the Losers Club, _ he tells Illyana, thumbing her flushed cheeks, other hand caged by Eddie’s,  _ the rest of your life begins now _ .

  
  
  
  
  


And so, Illyana is Richie’s second gift, because despite having lived his life with countless ups and downs, cruelly treated and tested, Richie also knew that life could be sweet—life could give him something in  _ return _ . He’s learned this. He’s  _ deserved _ this. Eddie has taught him, and Richie certainly likes to believe it too. 

(They like to repeat it out loud together. _An exercise_ _and a language of love_ but Richie thinks almost everything about the two of them can count as a language of love. It’s all he knows to convey when it comes to Eddie. Every touch, every breath, and every glance. Love, love, love.) 

Here and now is love: Losers all together under one room, collected and spreading chaos, noisy but having fun while helping Richie and Eddie paint Illyana’s room. 

Or...well, not  _ everyone _ was a busy bee. 

Richie bites away his smile, cheekily scouring for his phone to find the camera app. Illyana is cuddled in Eddie’s arm, giggling after smacking another fruit sticker on her dad’s exasperated face, already marked with several others already. He holds back his snort as he clicks a discreet picture of his husband’s adoring gaze and Illyana equally returning the same affection. It’s almost enough to send him into a breakdown. But Richie’s a strong bitch. He shall survive! 

Quickly, he tweets the picture since their fans go batshit crazy for this content and because he simply can’t help himself. Richie’s allowed to flaunt his happiness—isn’t he? 

Almost three seconds later, they hear that familiar buzz emit from the pocket of Eddie’s overalls. They freeze in synchronization and Richie plays it innocent when he crowds up behind Eddie, wrapping them both up entirely. He rests his chin on top of his head and inhales him in with a rock, side-to-side. 

Eddie moans pleasantly, “That wouldn’t happen to be a Twitter notification, now would it?” 

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’.

“Huh...So you didn’t just tweet a picture of me?”

“Never!” Richie boasts, reaching around to muss up Illyana’s hair, rewarding him a pouty smile. “Frankly, I don’t even know what tweeting is!”

“Hmm, okay.” He humors, leaning all the way back so that his head slots right under Richie’s chin and along his neck. Big grin on his face and warm, he feels good up against him.

Much like the others, Richie has also got stickers littered all over his arms and face—courtesy of the children who spin around them in circles. Minnie and Flynn were currently running around the room, leaving traces of painted footsteps behind on the sheet of plastic they’d done well to spread beforehand. Fred and Oliver on the other hand were dutiful in painting a corner of the wall with sloppy strokes, guided by Mike who is crouched beside them. 

“Oi, lovebirds!” Bill brushes past them, pushing two sets of paintbrushes their way, “I’m sure you t-two might  _ actually _ be u-useful if you’re not watching the p-paint dry?” He raises his eyebrows.

Richie snorts and accepts the brush, “Yeah but at least we haven’t been staring at Mike’s ass for the past hour.” He jabs, swinging the brush like it was a sword. 

Bill blushes and playfully scowls, “I’m allowed to s-stare at my husband’s ass— _ and _ ,” He tilts his head at Eddie in mock annoyance, “I think I saw Eddie over there catching an eyeful earlier too.” 

A dramatic gasp sucks past his teeth, “Edward Kaspbrak-Tozier. Is this true? In our  _ god-given _ queer home? Where we lay our loins?” Eddie rolls his eyes and pushes off, “Where we  _ make love  _ and where we’ve started a  _ family _ ?” 

Bill snickers and shakes his head on his way to Mike, who smiles once he’s at the receiving end of a forehead kiss. 

He rolls his eyes, “You would leave me for Mike in a heartbeat.” Eddie plays along with a shrug.

Smirking, Richie steals Illyana from him once she greedily grabs in his direction, “Ye of little faith.” He says to her but winks at Eddie a second later. 

Eddie squeezes his forearm and grins.

“He’s right.” Beverly adds, a smear of yellow paint across her cheek as she huffs away some strands of loose hair, “Bill, I mean. I’ve been working on this flower design and  _ none _ of you have been appreciative except for Patty.”

“Aww,” Patty throws an arm around her shoulder, “I got you, babe.” Bev leans into her embrace with a glowing smile.

“Hold up—” Eddie points at the mural, “That’s a  _ flower _ ?” He narrows his eyes, getting all up in the wall.

“That’s a flower,” Beverly affirms brightly.

“No, that’s a fucking vagina, Bev.  _ I’m looking at a vagina _ .” 

(And there it is! That karate-chop hand.) 

“This is why I’m gay,” Bill comments mostly to himself.

“I think it looks beautiful,” Ben says in that charming way of his.

“Absolutely stunning!” Mike praises, “Georgia O’ Keefe? Never heard of her.” He grasps Bev’s shoulder in passing, mirrored smiles. 

“Okay, but.” Richie starts, “I’m still reeling on the fact that Eddie’s the one who saw a vagina—like am I not good enough for you? Is my dick too big?” 

Stan makes a small displeased and pained noise, “I think it’s best that we  _ all  _ please shy away from this topic?” 

“Jealous.” Richie sticks out his tongue.

“I was literally married, Rich.” Eddie deadpans in the driest tone he can muster.

“What? To like a woman?”

Eddie snaps his head up, “Do you  _ want _ to sleep in the basement tonight?” 

“Kinky!” He waggles his eyebrows, “Want to tie me up and make me your bitch too, eh?” Richie swoons, hand at his temple.

“We  _ do not _ have a sex chamber.” Eddie clears up for the benefit of the doubt. “We don’t!” 

Stan deflates out a sigh, utterly remorseful, “Our children are going to be so traumatized…”

“Yeah, but more traumatized than us?” Richie asks with a sloppy grin, rocking Illyana.

Stan harrumphs (harrumphs!), “It could cut close.” 

His curls lie loosely over his head—longer than he would usually keep them, button-up sleeves rolled up to his elbows—the same one he gifted him for his birthday—and shorts reaching his knees. (Richie thinks he looks positively adorable). 

“Don’t go sentimental on me now,” Stan says, a concoction of a smirk and a genuine smile dancing on his lips. He dips his brush in the yellow paint bucket and doses it healthily. 

“Shut up. It’s my house.” He hands Illyana a smaller brush, “But at least  _ she _ won’t be—traumatized. You on the other hand...you swear  _ a lot _ , Stan, I think you should rather be concerned about your own.” Richie teases with a hip-check. 

Stan laughs, glancing briefly towards Fred and Minnie, both engaged in painting hand-prints on the wall, in a fit of laughter. “I think they turned out alright so far.” 

Illyana has a fierce grip on the brush so Richie moves closer to the wall, guiding her hand, “They’re perfect. And  _ you’re  _ perfect—You’re a good dad.”

Stan hisses low, “I told you to not get sappy, Rich.” His anger is only a futile attempt of a mask to hide his emotions. 

Richie grins, and claps him on the back, “Told you. My house.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re doing great at being a dad too, you know? You’ve always been good with the kids. With Fred in the beginning and now look at you.” Stan meets his eyes, simultaneously applying the last area he needs to cover. “You’re a natural.” 

“Oh.” He tilts his head down where Illyana isn’t doing much to get the job done, but Richie still feels this blossom of pride from the fact that she’s trying her best. 

Eddie and he both agreed they would encourage various activities with her starting from arts and music despite the downside of her inability to hear in the first place. The doctors mentioned she needs visual stimulation in her life, so they do their best and Illyana seems to enjoy it just as much. However, she’s still just a tiny thing, a few months old so they can’t really push her limits nor make choices for her. 

Still, they’ve noticed her attempts at mimicry (a milestone for her age), and how attached she’s become in such a short duration. Rarely left to her own devices, she’s spoiled, to say the least with endless attention from all the Losers as well as Maggie and Went who often visit. Kitty has also taken a liking to her but Illyana has yet to drop her defenses around their kitten and usually wails in her presence. They’re sure it’s only for the time being but they do make sure to show Illyana that Kitty is essentially harmless. 

So he can see why Stan would say such a thing but Richie hasn’t ever sat down to reflect on it. He’s taken each day at a time, mainly following his gut-feeling, played off of Eddie and what he thinks. Richie doesn’t have enough faith in himself to do so otherwise. 

“Richie…” Stan sets his brush down.

“Uh-oh. My spidey-senses are tingling for an upcoming lecture.”

Stan purses his lips, (It’s really unfair. He  _ knows _ it always does the trick.) “You’re damn right there’s a lecture.”

“I’m too old for this shit!” Richie whines childishly.

“ _ I’m  _ too old for your shit. I mean, come on, Rich. Who practically forced Eddie to move in with you after Derry? Who was there with him at every physical therapy session and helped him through every moment he broke down? Who fought for him? Brought back his confidence. Every bath, every massage, every stupid joke just to see him laugh?” Richie swallows thickly as he propels forward, “Back then, he was your entire world—albeit a terrible decision considering you were smothering him—but the point is that he never saw it that way. You were coming from a good place because that’s who you are. But. You completely disacknowledge your own needs and drop your whole life to care for the people you love.” 

“Because I want to.” He argues helplessly. 

Stan shakes his head, “No. You’re still missing the point…” He grabs his elbow, forcing his attention, “You try so hard to be good, you start to forget you  _ are _ good. Just a few months ago Ben broke his wrist during a construction accident and you were the first person to offer him a ride to the hospital.”

“Because everyone else was busy!”

“You had a gig that same evening and you missed it.” He corrects. 

Richie grumbles, something hot and heavy in his throat, “Is this the part where you tell me I shouldn’t be so hard on myself?” 

Stan snorts. It’s a cute sound—mostly air—and it has not changed in the slightest bit in all the time Richie’s known him. “What do you think?” 

He doesn’t wind up answering and spends the rest of the day mulling it over, resulting in a rather dull headache that lingers in the back of his head. He knows Stan only wants the best and pointed out something he already knows deep down but Richie wouldn’t mind if he would let him live in ignorance for a while longer. 

Richie smothers a yawn, a bit of wetness pooled at his eyes from the action as he tucks Illyana in her cot. It’s constructed directly from the hands of Ben and Mike, given as a gift after they’d signed all legal documents, secure in the knowledge that she would be theirs no matter what. The structure can rock from side to side as well and is fairly simple—just the way they wanted.

Eddie bends forward to kiss her cheek and place her favorite stuffed bunny closer to where she can easily cuddle with it. He looks worn out, still in overalls, socks mismatched (one covered in palm trees and the other in donuts), hair unkempt and fluffier than Richie has ever seen it. There are also multiple stains across the front, transferred from either paint or baby food. 

“Good?” He croaks, flicking away some traces of paint under his nails.

Richie nods once he’s done kissing her soft cheek as well, engulfed in the scent of clover.

In their room, Eddie quietly shut the door behind them, mid-yawn and already toeing off his socks. He crowds up on Richie's side and tiredly smiles when he hooks a finger around his suspenders and snaps it. The material  _ thwacks _ against his chest and stings deliciously.

“You should wear these more…” He says, patting Richie’s pec in a manner so delicate. 

It makes him smile and roll his eyes, “You want me out of these is more like it.” 

Eddie hums and it drives Richie a little crazy. (But it’s probably the idea of Eddie wanting to keep touching and holding him is what drives him around the bend.)

A light chuckle flows past his lips when Eddie removes his clothes, cheeky with a risque brush on the curve of his ass. It relieves some of the tension and Richie kisses him square on the mouth, fingers gripped at Eddie’s bearded chin. He goes in for another, feeling a hot hand smoothen down his spine. He shivers. 

“Let’s brush our teeth,” Eddie says, caught a bit breathless. 

Richie nods and they pull on their matching boxer briefs, shuffling quietly into their bathroom. Routine is routine. He squeezes out toothpaste onto Eddie’s toothbrush, applies the necessary cream to his stump, heart soaring whenever his goofy expressions are rewarded with a laugh. 

It’s a sort of normalcy he craves. 

Eddie remarks in bed, dozing in and out of consciousness during Richie’s nightly task of kneading his stump, “How are you always so good at this?”

They’re sat face-to-face, cross-legged with music on low volume in the background. “Practice makes perfect.” He replies wisely, successfully able to smooth out a knot. 

“Or…” He leans in, drowsy, “Maybe I like it when you touch me.” 

Richie laughs, “Focus. Can’t believe  _ I  _ have to be the one to tell you that.” 

The air kicks outwards from his lungs the second Eddie props up on his knees, causing their heights to shift. (Richie remembers calling him a tiger) and he stares at him like he wants to eat him alive and maybe Richie wants to be eaten. He’s close to begging for it. But he’s barely given a chance to before his cheek is grasped by a calloused hand he physically can’t help but lean into. His muscles are in a perpetual state of flexing, leaving Richie to wonder how a man his age could be  _ this  _ strong,  _ this _ powerful. There’s hard muscle compact in his entire body and yet still he’s so unbelievably soft. But that could just be a remnant of the cream, causing his tanned skin to glow under the silver moonlight. 

Just like a domino, Richie falls easily the second Eddie gently pushes him down to his back, straddled by his thighs and pinned into place. He enjoys the weight low on his stomach and reaches for the scar across his chest, tracing his fingers down. 

( _ Does it hurt? _ he’d asked once. Eddie hadn’t met his eyes,  _ My scar? _ . Richie said,  _ No. When you fell from heaven _ .) 

Eddie curls Richie’s hair behind his ears and then removes his glasses. He sets them on the bedside table, inhaling deeply before plunging down for a passionate kiss. Inherently learned, he cups Eddie’s face and allows him to lead them, wet kiss after wet kiss. He moans at the touch of his hand moving towards his chest where Eddie’s fingers brush the short hair, grabbing and squeezing the flesh. 

Richie sputters, “Shit, you’re randy—“

“Randy?—What the fuck.” Eddie laughs and kisses him again, “Randy...” He nips down the rugged length of his jaw, puffs of warm air sparking his skin, “This is like when you used ‘Chinatown’ in a sentence.” 

Richie smiles, “Hey, that’s a perfectly normal reference! ‘It’s Chinatown!’—People have said that!” 

“I’ve never heard anyone say that in my entire life.” Eddie insists, shimmying to the side of his waist where he kisses the path of his stretch marks, “Still. You’re a film nerd.” A kiss on his cheek. “It’s cute.” He says with direct eye contact before swallowing him into a relentless kiss on the mouth. 

Richie blushes slightly, blood hot beneath his skin. And just like that, he feels a thousand times better. It’s as if Eddie lives to praise him the right way—the way in which he can understand. 

All of a sudden, Eddie’s warmth is gone as he gets up and collapses on the side, bed springing. He pulls Richie’s body closer so that he can rest his head right above Eddie’s beating heart. The slow and steady rise and fall of his chest combined with the smell of coconut and Eddie’s fingers in his hair molds together and forces him to blurt it all out.

Except Richie exhales out a long breath and pouts. 

A small laugh wreaks from Eddie, jostling him in the process, “You’ve been sighing all day.” Richie starts drawing circles on his chest. This time his voice is gentler, “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, sweetheart?” 

He whines a little, “It’s nothing. It’s a  _ me _ problem.”

“It’s a  _ we _ problem then,” He corrects, “Because I’m your husband—so if you’re upset, I’m upset.” Gone is the smooth inflect in his tone. 

“What if it’s dumb?” Richie tips his head up to meet his gaze. 

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.” His eyebrows raise and Richie sighs again. 

“I’m important. I  _ know _ I am. But I forget it and end up not taking care of myself. And if I’m not taking care of myself, I’m hurting others--like when I had us trapped at home all those years ago.”

Sorrowful, Eddie frowns, “You’re still thinking about that?” 

“How can I not? I lost myself and I made you lose yourself in the process too—so I’m afraid. I’m so afraid I’m going to do that to Illyana.” Richie confesses, that familiar burning sensation in his eyes prominent once again, “I don’t think I ever apologized for what I did to you either—and I could never  _ ever _ forgive myself if I end up doing it again.” 

Eddie  _ tsks _ and sits up, “First of all, that’s never going to happen because I would kick your ass as I did before.” Even through the blob of emotion in his throat, Richie seems to cough out a laugh. Eddie appears serious again, “And...I never apologized either.” 

Richie scoffs and props himself up on his elbow, “What would you need to apologize for? You did  _ nothing  _ wrong.” 

Eddie scratches peeled skin on the side of his thumb, “I took all of my frustration out on you.” He shrugs, “I wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.” 

Exasperation seeps in voice low, “You lost a limb. That’s not easy.” 

“Maybe. It’s still not an excuse.” 

“I could say the same about me.” 

For a moment, neither of them move, magnetically entranced in an eye-lock, the music maximized even though it’s almost all the way down. 

Richie takes Eddie’s hand and brings it to his face. The cold metal of his wedding ring gleams and it’s a comfort to feel in the moment. He kisses the back and pushes his ring up, “I’m so sorry.” 

He’s finally able to breathe it seems, for Eddie shakily releases a breath, returning to life. “I’m sorry too.” He swallows, “But I forgave you ages ago.” He adds, his hold tighter in Richie’s hand. 

“Me too. I don’t think I could possibly be angry with you. You make it too hard.” This draws a smirk out of him. “You’re just too darn cute. I love you.” Richie means to pinch his cheek but Eddie’s an instinctive guy who is far too quick. 

“I love you,” Eddie says right away. (Richie’s heart sings whenever he does because there’s no hesitation whatsoever). He lies down again, speaking in the same breath, “I love you—like a lot.” As if shy, he laughs lowly and ducks his head.

Richie grins, “I love you a lot too. Like so much I think I would explode.” 

“Hmm, I know what you mean. I could be a shooting star—I could  _ run _ solely on your love.”

Richie breaks into laughter, wheezing, “That’s so rad—“

“Shut up! I’m trying to talk about my feelings!” Eddie playfully slaps his shoulder. 

“No, no, it’s great!” He wipes away the tears, forcing sincerity, “I’m proud of how far you’ve come.” Richie kisses his forehead. 

“I love you,” Eddie repeats.

“I love  _ you _ .” 

He shifts closer, “And I’m never going to let us behave that way again. If we see the signs we  _ have _ to call us out. Promise me.” 

“I promise.” He swears solemnly into the night air. 

Eddie’s breath hitches and he bites his lip as if it’s an afterthought, “Number?” 

“I’m good. I pinky-promise.” He holds it up and Eddie hooks his own around it right away. 

“Okay.” He says, searching his face, “Okay.” This time it’s soft and slow. 

“Okay.” Richie parrots for no particular reason. 

Eddie swoops in for another kiss because he is an insatiable bastard (not that Richie could ever complain). “Let’s try to get some sleep? At least before she wakes us up again?” 

“Yeah.” He says and flips to the side of his stomach so that Eddie can easily wrap his arm around him, leg flopped over his own. 

He nuzzles deep against Richie’s back and inhales thoroughly with a stretch of his torso in an attempt of getting comfortable. “When she wakes, let me put her back to sleep, okay?” With their conversation and agreement still running fresh in his mind, Richie nods. “You need more sleep,” He adds, gliding a palm down his bicep in comfort, “I’ll take care of us.” 

Warmth radiates like a heater and Richie hums, “I know.” A small smile curves up, gentle and sleepy and a swirl of memories beginning from their childhood until this very moment hang like a string inside his head, “You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm nervous ahhh, I hope that was at least satisfying? I may or may not be planning more, don't want to jinx myself but I also don't want to milk it dry, you know?
> 
> Side note: I really have no clue how adoption works. I read a bunch of sites and mostly all of them said different things and mention that it depends on the hospital itself. So, I sort of created my own vague system which is why everyone please suspend disbelief, thank you <3
> 
> One more thing: the name Illyana comes from the X-Men comics!! She's known as Magik.
> 
> Leave a comment if you want to :) I survive solely on validation :))


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